In a previous post I spoke about how W. S. of Blackwood, poet of The Wreck of the Loch Ard, received a letter via The Bacchus Marsh Express either complementing or criticising his poem (it is a bit hard to tell). As promised here is the letter [1] and the response in verse form from W. S. [2].
Just as I have been unable to expand much on the identity of W. S. beyond their initials, the identity of the author of the letter below is also unknown. However I can reveal that the quoted poem attributed to G. F. A. was penned by George French Angus. The Dunbar ran aground at Sydney in 1857. The poem of which a sizeable extract (11 of the 21 verses) is included in the critique letter. G.F.A.'s poem was first published in 1857 [3], and then again as part of a collection in 1874 [4].
The critique letter was printed on 27 July 1878. The newspaper printer has set it out is the preamble to the 'reflections' which I have covered previously. W. S.'s response to the letter appears a week later on 3 August 1878.
The letter feels duplicitous in its construction, the author uses the voice of an unnamed, 'evil-minded', person, 'who is no judge of poetry' to critique W. S. I suspect that this un-named complainer and the letter's author are one and the same. For me the two greatest slurs are
W. S. is not a signature at all, but means "Wretched Stuff," and that it is not poetry but doggerel.
and
"W. S." is not a Byron or a Tennyson, but as a local poet, treating a local subject in a descriptive fashion in rhyme his production has quite sufficient merit to justify its publication in a local paper, at any rate.
I feel it is safe to dimiss GFA as the author, as a well known identity his timeline is well known an he would have return to England by the time of these publications.
To the Editor of the Express. [1]
SIR, —
It must be a gratification to your readers to find a second time in your columns that noble poem on the wreck of the Loch Ard. Such an event is calculated to rouse the strongest feelings of our hearts, and if a man has any poetry in him to compel him to pour it forth. I am proud of Blackwood for possessing such a poet as W. S. All honour to him! I wish his merits were more widely known. I shall certainly spread his fame as far as I can. I have heard some remarks from one person, who is evidently no judge of poetry, which, as he is a person of some little influence, may, if allowed to spread, injure the fair name of W. S.; therefore I take the liberty of writing to you, sir, to expose his ignorance, and uphold the character of our "local poet." This evil minded person says that W. S. is not a signature at all, but means "Wretched Stuff," and that it is not poetry but doggerel. Now, sir, I recollect that some years ago there was a somewhat similar catastrophe at Port Jackson — the wreck of the Dunbar. Upon that occasion a poem was written, a copy of a part of which I enclose, that you may see that, in poetry, Sydney is a long way behind Blackwood, and that G. F. A. cannot for a moment be compared with W. S.
THE WRECK OF THE DUNBAR.
She rode the midnight sea,
With the land upon her lee,
Fond hearts hoped soon to be
At home again.No moon lights up the deep,
No stars their vigils keep,
And the weary ones asleep
Dream their last dream.The doom'd ship ploughs the wave,
She bears them to their grave,
Where the mad surges rave,
And sea fires gleam.Visions of friendly greeting--
Dreams of to-morrow's meeting--
Alike old age are cheating,
And youth's bright crown.Toy of the mocking wave,
Helpless her crew, to save;
The beautiful and brave
They all went down.Then mingled with the roar
Of the wild surf on the shore
From is hundred souls and more
One shriek of woe.That cry went up to Heaven,
As in darkness they were driven;
And the strong ship was riven
At one fell blow.Death rides in triumph there!
Through that midnight of despair
The last faint gurgling prayer
Is heard no more.
And then the giant sea,
By God's right hand set free,
Mocks man's proud mastery,
And all is o'er?
...
Calm Calm sleep be their sleep
While many mourners weep
The lost ones in the deep--
The fair--the brave.
God help the hearts that mourn--
The stricken and forlorn;
Whose ties are rudely torn
By the salt wave.G. F. A.
You will be able to judge, sir, whether the effusion of G. F. A., or that of W. S., should more correctly be styled wretched stuff. Allowances must certainly be made for G. F. A., because the romantic incident of the rescue of the "afflicted Miss" was wanting in the case of the Dunbar. As only one life was saved on that occasion, G. F. A. could not have written such noble lines as those in which W. S. has recorded the heroic conduct of Thomas Pearce thus--
"He brought her brandy from the tide,
And rushes from the mountain side,
And both were properly applied."The evil-minded person mentioned above says that the "tide," meaning the sea, is not the usual place to go for brandy, and that rushes are not generally found on mountains; also, that while he, not being a teetotaller, can see how brandy can be "applied" beneficially, he does not understand the "proper application" of rushes. Let him come to Blackwood. I have no doubt W. S. will explain to him how those articles are to be found in those places, and also the "proper application" of them. But let him not again presume to find fault with any poet who belongs to BLACKWOOD.
We should feel ourselves a party to deception if we did not state that the writer of the above is not a resident at Blackwood. He indulges in satire which some persons may consider "wretched stuff' instead of the poetry he criticises. All excellence is comparative, and "W. S." is not a Byron or a Tennyson, but as a local poet, treating a local subject in a descriptive fashion in rhyme his production has quite sufficient merit to justify its publication in a local paper, at any rate. His critic quotes perhaps the worst verse in the whole, and does so in a spirit which shows that he does not know or ignores the fact that literal accuracy is a drawback rather than a merit in poetry, which should be imaginative, and fanciful. Indeed the verse complained of is too accurate in its description of the acts narrated, and if we took the trouble to analyse it, and "Blackwood's" rendering of it, we could show that the latter is wrong, even according to his own canons of criticism. We commend to Blackwood's poetic soul the following verse as more worthy of his attention than the one he quotes:--
Ungoaded by the love of fame--
Untwitted by the taunts of shame--
No crowds were there to praise or blame,
Or weep suppose he died,
Yet swift as eagle on his prey,
Or lightning's flash he's borne away
Headlong dashing through the spray
He stems the seething tide!
W. S. understandably took exception to the criticism. Their response, in my opinion, is more doggerel than poetry. I suspect they deliberately plays this up as a rebuke, they hint at this at the end of verse one.
REPLY TO THE WOULD-BE CRITIC OF THE LINES ON THE WRECK OF THE LOCH ARD. [2]
Friend or critic, great unknown,
For the courtesy you've shown
A deep debt is due to thee
By Mt. Blackwood or by me.
Your opinions of our bard
Claim the following reward;
'Tis the least that we can do
To express some praise of you
While your virtues I extend
Even to the world's end.
Others' thoughts are herein shown;
Like yourself I nurse my own.
Here's the stuff that crowds rehearse,
All strung up in doggerel verse.Critic, bard, or nameless thing,
When your fancy first took wing
Did it fly in search of fame
To procure its Dad a name ?
Its melodious siren strain
And honeyed words were all in vain,
For the music lost its charm
And wily words failed to disarm
Suspicion, though inspection proof--
All except the cloven hoof,
Which your readers saw, and smiled.
Poor old Brimstone, were you foiled?
After spending all your wit
Not a side with laughter split.Some aver you're not so bad,
Only for the drop you had.
Though, poor wrecker, from the tide
You with brandy were supplied,
Who should make a song of this
Or your sympathy for Miss?
Some maintain it raised the steam,
Then you eyed as in a dream
The rushes in a whirlwind glide
Away from every mountain side.
Spirit medium, did they pass
While you struggled in the grass?Keener critics, more acute,
Stranger things still attribute--
Overweening wish to shine
Fans they say that flame of thine.
We admire those lines of worth,Pretty lines, to which you give birth.
Sydney's bard will doubtless see
They might have died but for thee.
Though you borrow every line
May you not by proxy shine?
While your scarecrow croak is clear
Rhyming dunces die from fear.
If your wit the world may share
Tell us what you've got to spare.
Feed not all on other's fame;
Sneer not, thing without a name,
Be you pedagogue or prince;
Small's your rate if taxed on sense.Now, if vain presuming elf
Self conceit consumes thyself,
Curb the flame, and pray for sense.
Gag your mouth in self defence.
Bid not worlds in wonder gaze
At an addled critic's craze.Or if toady tool thou art,
Sycophant to evil art,
Be the cat's-paw while you may;
You'll crack nuts another day.Baffled critic, sad and lone,
Hope of honour fled and gone,
Conscience-smitten, ill at ease,
What can Blackwood do to please?
Pity prompts her humble muse
Both to pardon and excuse
All thy testy lines of spleen--
Pointless, pungentless, and mean.W. S.
BLACKWOOD.
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